


Invented in Russia

by spacebromance



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacebromance/pseuds/spacebromance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pavel finds a Russian music box in an antique store. Unfortunately, it's been misidentified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invented in Russia

They’re at Spacedock for a brief layover—not long enough to rent out a den, but long enough to eat and maybe visit a few shops on the concourse—so Hikaru and Pavel disembark from the _Enterprise_ to explore.

Most shops cater to the military life: dive bars, dance clubs, holovid theaters featuring blockbuster films. But somehow Hikaru always manages to find the little merchant boutiques with the personal touch that everyone else overlooks.

This time they visit a tea shop that sells actual tea leaves. Pavel buys himself three different flavors and—discreetly—one bag of authentic coffee grounds for Hikaru. Then there’s a store advertising a selection of potted plants for shipboard quarters, where Hikaru pours over the seed packets and speaks excitedly to the shop owner while Pavel watches the fish in the fishtanks. Afterward they find a print-media bookstore and buy nothing, but they spend a lot of time reading the titles and gently touching the spines.

They’re both getting hungry, and are preparing to break for a meal when Hikaru makes a delighted noise and drags Pavel toward a dimly lit storefront.

It’s an antique shop.

When they step inside a hush falls over them. It feels a bit like stepping back in time. There’s an old globe, a ship-in-a-bottle, a collection of old-fashioned pocketwatches. A set of swords hang from the wall, and Hikaru leans in to explain the history of each to Pavel in a muted voice.

They drift apart, taking separate aisles. Pavel walks past a china doll, woodworking tools, a tea set, an hourglass. He hovers over a handcrafted, wooden music box.

It’s Russian.

Pavel marvels at it. The painted-black design, the woodwork—he runs his fingers over the pine-lacquer finish—this is Russian craftsmanship. He breathes in and imagines he can smell the Siberian pine trees from home. He opens the lid to reveal the internal mechanism, which appears intact even after all these years, though it doesn’t work when he winds it.

He reaches for the card that explains more about the item’s history, and reads: _Qing Dynasty Music Box. Originating in China, 19 th Century._

Pavel makes an involuntary, distressed sound from the back of his throat. “This is _Russian_.”

“Hmm?” Hikaru hums distractedly, not looking up from an old atlas he’s studying beneath a pane of glass.

“This music box. It’s been mislabeled.” Pavel opens the music box again and studies the pins of the mechanism, trying to glean the song that they play from the arrangement and spacing.

Hikaru gravitates toward Pavel and wraps a arm around his waist. “How can you tell?”

“The woods, the lacquer, the pattern on the top.” Pavel touches it all reverently. “The blockiness of the design?  Comes from _quilting_ , Hikaru. From so many mothers making blankets to keep their children warm. That is the origin of the artistic movement.”

Pavel still has a quilt in his closet that his mother made for him: she’d stitched it together with her own hands, using pieces of a blanket that he’d had as a baby. It’s one of the few things that he still has of hers, and when he holds it he remembers being small and sitting in her lap as she worked on it, and how she’d wrapped him up in it when it was finally finished, and then wrapped him up in her arms.

Hikaru hums again, appreciatively. “It’s nice.” Then he kisses Pavel’s cheek. “You ready to get out of here? I’m starving.”

“Wait. I think—maybe I should notify the shopkeeper? It’s been misidentified.”

Hikaru hesitates. “It has a certificate of authenticity.”

“I know! I cannot tell whether it’s malicious fraudulence or just regular incompetence. They can appear so similar, sometimes.”

Pavel takes Hikaru’s hand to lead him toward the desk where the shopkeeper is sitting, but Hikaru resists, pulling him back. “Wait. Pavel. Hold on. I mean—I know you’re really into this Russian heritage stuff, but. China and Russia are pretty close. Isn’t it possible they shared artistic influences?”

“Hikaru, this is clearly Russian. They used pine-resin-based lacquer; you can smell it! I will just tell the shopkeeper, and then—”

“Wait, _wait._ Pavel—you can’t just tell people stuff like that. You’re not an expert; he’s not going to believe you, and I know how you get, it’ll be a big scene, and it’s not worth it. Let’s just go. What’s it matter what the card says?”

 Pavel turns on him, scandalized. “What’s it _matter?_ What if the person who buys it doesn’t know better? What if they put it on some shelf next to that stupid certificate? The Chinese get credit for Russian craftsmanship _._ This is ridiculous, and no. I will fix this.”

Hikaru takes Pavel’s hands and squeezes them gently. “Look. The whole Russian thing is fine with the crew; it’s cute. But please, please don’t do this here, okay?”

“The ‘Russian thing?’“

“Yeah. Y’know, how you always say ‘ _it was inwented in Russia.’_ You’re homesick, and I get that, but—“

Pavel pulls his hands back from Hikaru’s grip. His whole face feels iced-over, frozen in a blank expression, and Pavel steps back. “This is a joke to you?”

“What? No. I didn’t mean—“

“No, I think you meant it.” Pavel shakes his head. He feels sick. “This is a joke to you. The little Russian kid who can’t speak well, because he didn’t learn ‘Standard’ as his native language. Because he comes from a ‘nonconforming country,’ because we didn’t all step into line when the Federation decided that _English_ would become the universal language. How amusing to cling to my dying cultural identity. How comical, when ‘being human’ has become culturally synonymous with ‘being American’ to the rest of the universe. Yes, let us all laugh at _funny Pavel Chekov._ ”

He’s shaking with a kind of anger that makes him feel cold instead of hot. Hikaru rocks backward on his feet, like he’s been slapped.

Pavel straightens his shirt, and his voice is soft and frightening even as he says, “I’m not hungry. I think I’ll go back to the ship now.”

“Wait, I’ll—I’ll walk you.”

“No.” Pavel holds a hand up to stop Hikaru from coming any closer. “I would prefer that you didn’t.”

“Pavel—“

Pavel leaves the store. The world starts to spin around him a bit, and he has to remind himself to breathe. He’s not sure what he looks like that makes everyone he passes ask him if he’s alright, but he’s fine. He feels cold all over, everywhere, and his head hurts, and he wants to lie down, and he’s fine.

When he reaches his quarters, he drags his mother’s quilt out from the closet and wraps himself in it and curls into a ball on the bed.

An indeterminate amount of time later, the door chimes and Pavel knows who it is. He doesn’t want to answer, but Hikaru has the access code, so really, the chime is more of a formality.

“I’m not feeling well,” he calls out. “I’d prefer to be left alone.”

The door chimes again, this time with the entry code, and when Pavel rolls over Hikaru is standing silhouetted in the doorway. He’s holding a box in his hands.

“Okay. Okay, but. Just. You don’t have to say anything. Just listen, okay? And then I’ll go. But just listen first.” Hikaru lets out a shaky breath. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have said those things that I did. You should feel proud of where you come from. I’m _glad_ that you’re proud of where you come from. It’s what makes you _you,_ and I love you, so.”

There’s a pause, maybe where Hikaru is expecting Pavel to say ‘I love you, too,’ though Pavel isn’t ready to forgive him that easily. Hikaru takes a deep, steadying breath and continues.

“I also thought about what you said. About cultural identity, and how humanity is becoming more homogenized. And you’re right about that, too. I’m sorry. I’m sort of an insensitive jerk about a lot of stuff. But I’ll work on being better, okay? And I talked to the antique shop guy, about what you said, and he was a total asshole and he didn’t believe me, even though what the fuck would he know about China _or_ Russia. Anyway. I couldn’t get him to change the certificate, so I bought it instead.”

Hikaru steps forward and sets the box he’s holding down at the foot of Pavel’s bed.

Pavel sits up and gasps. Because tucked safely inside the padding is the music box. “Oh, _Hikaru._ ” Because it _can’t_ have been cheap, even though the music mechanism doesn’t work. The box is hand-carved wood—maybe not priceless art, but rich in history—and he doesn’t know _how_ Hikaru managed to afford it.

“So.” Hikaru shrugs. “You can scribble out the bits of the certificate that are wrong, or burn it and write your own. I don’t care. I just thought, maybe Russian heritage should stay where it can be appreciated.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [spockyspockspockerson](http://spockyspockspockerson.tumblr.com), who said [this](http://spockyspockspockerson.tumblr.com/post/74377300289/imagine-sulu-taking-chekov-going-to-an-antique): "Imagine Sulu taking Chekov going to an antique shop or something and as they’re walking through the isles, Chekov picks up an old music box or something and sees a 'Made in China' sticker and becomes seriously offended and with out Sulu noticing he goes through the shop writing 'Made in Russia' in sharpie maker on everything."
> 
> Obviously there are some crack elements to my telling. In reality, nobody is going to confuse a wooden Russian music box for Qing Dynasty Chinese; they're two _radically_ different styles. Also, there's no way Sulu can afford it, but just imagine Chekov with a Russian music box on his nightstand, and he fixes the mechanism and winds it up and listens to a Russian lullaby whenever he's sick or lonely, and he cherishes it forever, okay? Just imagine that.


End file.
